Sherlock Meets Chuck
by chappysmom
Summary: John and Sherlock take a broken laptop to a LA shop to be repaired, but things go awry when Sherlock and the Nerd Herd supervisor get kidnapped ... but that's okay. It turns out that John and Casey knew each other in Afghanistan ... what could go wrong? Oh, right, Mycroft was watching...


Note: I own nothing but my own, silly plot. Chuck belongs to Warner Brothers and NBC, Sherlock to the BBC and Moffat/Gatiss. I just thought it was time these folks met, and did what I could to make it happen. Not beta'd, so any mistakes are my own. I just like to play here.

(You don't need to have watched Chuck to read this-sadly, too few people did-just know that he accidentally downloaded a government computer's worth of secrets into his brain and now has two government handlers working to keep him safe.)

##

What a ridiculous shop, Sherlock thought. It was so very American—big and brash and loud. He couldn't believe he'd let John drag him in here at all, but his flatmate swore he needed his computer fixed so here they are.

Sherlock was still unsure what he was even doing here. He hated California. It was too sunny. It was too warm to wear his coat. There was far too much traffic, and absolutely nothing ever happened. It was dull. He was bored. He wanted to go home.

Except, he had promised John he would come. Nobody had been more surprised than John when a movie studio called, wanting to turn his blog posts into a movie. He'd been ecstatic and terrified by turns—not least by worrying who a Hollywood studio might cast to play him. John liked to think of himself as a Martin Freeman type, but even Sherlock knew that actor was going to be stuck playing variations on that hobbit-dwarf-whatever character for years. John could do better.

He wandered up and down the aisles, looking for something to distract him. The employees seemed unusually moronic, even by his usual standards. Did no-one work in this store? He saw the manager (large, black, traces of powdered sugar on his fingers) ranting at one of the employees (wild hair, clearly high, possibly suffering from long-term poisoning). The histrionics were mildly distracting, but still … emotional displays were dull.

He waved off a salesman (short, bearded, too like a puppy dog to be bearable) and ambled toward John, waiting at the computer repair station. ("Nerd Herd," how frightfully amusing.) An employee was approaching the desk—a tall man, approximately 30 years old, calluses showing him to be not only a computer expert but also a video game enthusiast. But … curious. He glanced at Sherlock as he passed and his look was more than that of a normal shop employee—not suspicious, exactly, but _aware_ in the way a soldier or spy was. Or a criminal.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as his head analyzed the clues in front of him, surprised when the man froze in place, grimacing for several seconds as he blinked rapidly as if he'd had some kind of revelation. Definitely curious—especially when the man immediately turned and headed for the door. And … was he talking to his _watch_?

Without even thinking, Sherlock turned on his heel and followed.

#

John leaned on the Nerd Herd desk while he waited for the man to come back with his laptop. He was keeping an eye on Sherlock as he walked through the store, looking around and observing everything. He just shook his head. He knew this was a foreign country, and all, but it wasn't_that_ unlike home, was it?

Though, as another slim, fit, tanned blonde walked by, he wondered. Maybe LA really was a foreign country—but one he could easily get used to.

He saw the computer tech heading back with his laptop and smiled. He couldn't believe how much he'd missed it, and wondered what kind of virus he'd picked up. The tech—Chuck—had assured him it was fixable, though, and he looked relaxed enough as he walked up the aisle so John wasn't feeling worried.

Or, he wasn't until Chuck and Sherlock came face-to-face. Chuck froze in his tracks staring at his friend and then … spooked was the only word John could think of. He started walking to the door, passed John's computer off to another employee and then practically dashed for the door.

Sherlock, naturally, was right behind him, curiosity obviously piqued by the man's strange behavior. What was he thinking? John called after him as he swept along to the door, following the computer tech out into the parking lot.

John was just shaking his head at his friend's eternally odd behavior when he saw a van pull up outside and four men jump out to grab Chuck and Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" John shouted as he sprinted to the door. He was almost knocked off his feet by a larger man shouting "Bartowski!"

The two of them ran through the door, almost knocking over the Asian holding John's laptop. (John could almost see him spinning in a cloud of dust like a cartoon character as they darted past. He just hoped he wouldn't drop his computer.)

By the time they reached the parking lot, though, the van was already speeding away. John saw the other man holding a gun, obviously thinking about trying to shoot out a tire. "You'll never make the shot at that angle," he panted. "Not with a handgun."

Seeing the man's aggressive body language, John wasn't entirely surprised to find himself thrust against the building, an arm at his throat, the gun digging into his ribs. "Where are they taking him?"

"What? Who? I've no idea. It was my friend who just got kidnapped."

The larger man growled. "No. Your friend was involved somehow. Bartowski alerted me that he was trouble."

John nodded calmly, ignoring the anger in the man's face. "He often is, yes, but in this case he's just a tourist. He's certainly not a kidnapper. He was, in fact, just abducted along with your computer tech and I want to know why. _Right now_." The last words came out clipped in his best Captain's command voice, and the other man responded automatically to the tone, easing the pressure on John's throat.

"So do I. Who are you?"

"John Watson," he said almost absently. John was squinting at him, a hot, dusty memory stirring in the back of his head. "Are you … You are. Major Casey? John Casey?"

The other man's eyes widened briefly, then softened, ever so slightly. "Doc Watson?"

John felt his lips stretch in a smile. "It's a long way from Afghanistan. I remember now. Your unit was caught under fire and mine was the closest medical team."

"And you saved the lives of at least two of mine." Casey stepped back and holstered his gun before holding out a hand. "It's good to see you again, Doc."

"You, too. Now," he licked his lips. "You want to tell me who just kidnapped my friend? And what I can do to help?"

#

John followed Casey back into the store, still stunned. Sherlock had been kidnapped (again), he'd just stumbled across someone he'd met thousands of miles away in a war zone, and he even had his laptop back. (Casey grabbed it from the Asian man as they walked by, giving an "I'll take that" grunt while John shrugged apologetically.)

Casey took them into the employee lounge and, after making sure nobody was watching, did … something … in his locker to open a secret door. John's eyebrows lifted. "Unusual feature," he said. "Extra merchandise?"

A laugh of a grunt. "Something like that." Casey waved him through and then followed, pulling the door behind him. He led the way down the stairs and through corridors that made John feel both intimidated and awed … and not a little like the American government had been watching too many James Bond films.

They rounded the final corner into what was clearly a command center and Casey immediately went to the computer and started pulling up surveillance footage. It showed Chuck leaving the store, with Sherlock five steps behind him, face intent. The white van came roaring up from the left of the screen and four men dressed in black combat gear jumped out. They sprayed some kind of gas into Chuck's face and grabbed his limp body. Sherlock looked like he was shouting in protest and didn't have a chance when they sprayed the same substance into his mouth.

"Oh God," John said. "Mycroft's going to kill me. If anything happens to Sherlock…"

"That's the least of our problems," Casey told him. "Bartowski is a national security asset we cannot allow to fall in enemy hands."

"Understood, but let's just say the British Government is also very … attached … to Sherlock. All hell's going to break loose if I don't get him back."

Casey glanced up at him. "What are you now, Doc, some kind of spy?"

John laughed. "Not even close, but Sherlock's brother … well … you really _don't_ want to mess with him."

Casey was just about to answer when a door opened at the top of the stairs and a frantic voice came from above. "Casey, what the hell happened? Where's Chuck?"

John looked up and saw a beautiful blonde hurrying down the stairs. She was wearing the uniform from the frozen yogurt shop but moved with deadly assurance—undercover, then, like Casey. His brow creased. It seemed like his computer tech was under more surveillance than Sherlock was.

"He was snatched right outside the Buy More," Casey was saying, rolling the surveillance footage again.

John watched her as she stared at the screen—totally professional, but with her eyes betraying real concern. "He said he was being followed by someone suspicious, do we know who that is?"

"That would be Sherlock Holmes," John said with a slight cough.

She whirled around and pierced him with a glare that could have been intimidating if he weren't used to this kind of reaction to Sherlock. "And who the hell are you?"

"John Watson," he said patiently. "And that was my friend Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. I have no idea what spooked Chuck, but he took one look at Sherlock and bolted for the door."

She was glaring at Casey now. "What is he doing down here, Casey? You're the one always so concerned with security."

Casey met her gaze and said, "I knew Captain Watson in Afghanistan. He's RAMC and saved the lives of several of my team. Watson, this is Agent Sarah Walker, CIA. He was just about to explain what he's doing here."

John raised his eyebrows and asked. "I was?"

"Or are you going to tell me it's a secret? Why else would there be someone attached to the British government in my store?"

"What? No. God, no." John said. "It's purely coincidence, though no doubt Sherlock could give you the precise odds that it could happen. Honestly, I just needed my computer fixed and someone in the hotel sent us here."

"What are you doing in LA, then? Last time I checked, the British Army doesn't run maneuvers on this side of the ocean."

"I'm not in the army, anymore, Casey. I got shot and was invalided out several years ago. I started sharing a flat with Sherlock, and now we solve crimes together. He's a consulting detective and works with Scotland Yard."

"So you're connected to the police, then?" Sarah asked.

"Not officially, and anyway, that's not why we're here." John rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly embarrassed. "This is still weird—we're here because I was offered a movie deal. Sherlock just came along because he's bored. Well, I mean, he's always bored when he's not on a case. But then my laptop picked up a virus and I brought it here to be fixed. Honestly. That's it."

"A movie deal." Casey's voice was flat, disbelieving.

"Apparently they quite like my blog," John said with a shrug.

"Your blog." Even less enthusiasm.

"Yeah, I know. It sounds ridiculous, but we solve crimes together and I blog about it. It's not the army, but it's never boring. Sherlock coming back from the dead didn't hurt, either." John smiled at the horror on the other man's face but just said, "So—are we going to chase the kidnappers?"

Recalled to duty, Sarah turned back. "Do we have the signal from Chuck's watch?"

Casey pressed a few keys. "No, damn it. They must have disabled it."

"Is there a GPS signal on his phone?" John asked, thinking about murderous cabbies. More keystrokes and then a grunt that spoke volumes.

"They must have been prepared," Sarah said, "And knew he'd have tracking devices."

"They might not have disabled Sherlock's, though," John suggested. He blinked as they both stared at him. "He's got a tracking device in his phone. Mycroft swears he doesn't, but I know it's there."

"Your friend the detective has a tracking device. I thought you said he wasn't a spy." Casey said.

"He's not, but I told you—the British Government is very attached to him. Though this probably means I'm going to have to call Mycroft, God help me."

"And who's Mycroft?" Sarah asked.

"Sherlock's brother," John told her with a sigh. "He practically _is_ the British government—and he worries."

"We'll need to clear it with …" Sarah was just saying as the monitor in front of them came to life with a stern, red-headed general.

"Hello team," she said abruptly. "I just got a call from … well … that's actually above _my_ pay grade. Apparently a British citizen was kidnapped about half an hour ago and we need to find him ASAP. You're instructed to contact Dr. John Watson who should be able to help. He's former RAMC and travelling with the man, a Sherlock Holmes."

John and Sherlock's pictures appeared on screen just as John stepped forward and the General saw him for the first time. "I'm right here, ma'am. John Watson. I was in the store when Sherlock and Chuck were taken, ma'am."

"Chuck? He was kidnapped, too?" There was no mistaking the horror in her face.

"Yes, ma'am," said Casey. "We think that Bartowski was actually the target, and that Watson's friend was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. We tried tracking Bartowski's watch, but the transponder has been disabled. Watson believes his friend has one in his phone, though, but apparently it's some kind of top secret signal we can't access."

John just closed his eyes. These people had no idea, he thought, just as his phone rang. He looked at his phone's display. "Yeah. I did tell you." He answered. "Hello, Mycroft."

_"John. What did he do?"_

"It wasn't his fault this time, Mycroft. It looks like he was standing in the wrong place at the wrong time when, er," he glanced over to the others, suddenly reminded of how very secure this hidden base was, "Somebody here was abducted. It looked like Sherlock was taken just because he was there. I'm sorry. I wasn't fast enough to stop it."

"Yes, Charles Bartowski. He's some kind of intelligence asset. I assume they were unable to trace him?"

"No, but we were wondering if you had, er, any way to track Sherlock's phone?"

_"I'm sending the address now,"_ Mycroft said, _"Though I would appreciate it if you would refrain from telling Sherlock of this, later on._"

There was a beep from one of the computers and Casey pulled up a tracking signal. "Thanks, Mycroft. And you know he knows already, right?"

_"Of course. Do keep me informed this time?"_

"There hasn't been time, Mycroft. How did you know? No, wait, never mind. Of course you did. We'll be in touch." John disconnected and turned to the others who were all staring, speechless. "I DID tell you. We need to get both of them back … quickly."

#

Sherlock came to, groggily aware of his surroundings. Hard metal chair. Rope. Damp, musty air. And a headache. Let's not forget the monumental headache trying to split his brain in two. He lifted his head and tried to force his eyes open, squinting at the light. He wasn't alone. The computer tech from the store was cuffed to another chair next to him, still unconscious.

He examined what he could of the room (not much), but then just watched the other man, thinking back to the behavior that had caught his attention. The computer tech had been walking along, calmly and at ease, but when he saw Sherlock … interesting. His whole body had frozen as if under a sudden onslaught. But of what? There had been nothing in the store, no scents, no noise to cause such a reaction. It wasn't a seizure … except, it almost looked like a mild one.

But then, the man had blinked as if assimilating information and then hurried out of the store, jabbering into his watch like a spy from … oh. This really _was_ interesting. Even more so than he'd originally thought, since this computer tech not only had hidden depths, but was important enough to warrant abduction—which certainly broke up the monotony of a visit to boring Hollywood quite nicely.

The man was starting to wake up, groaning in his chair and making far too much fuss over a simple abduction. Especially if his line of work was what Sherlock suspected. "Ow. I think my head is going to explode, just shoot me now."

"All things considered, that expression seems remarkably ill-chosen," Sherlock said, and then winced slightly in sympathy at the man's face when his head jerked up and made the pain in his head "explode."

"What are you doing here?" he asked after a moment.

"I seem to have gotten mixed up in your abduction," Sherlock told him. "They were really quite efficient. It would have been just as easy to leave me there, but no doubt they decided to take advantage of your 2-for-1 sale."

A wan smile. "It's so hard to explain the difference between employees and merchandise." He was looking more alert—or just trying to put up a good front. "I'm Chuck, by the way."

"Sherlock," he told him, but he saw a flicker in Chuck's eye. "But you knew that, didn't you? How?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. You're not a regular customer, not with that accent."

A twitch at the corner of his mouth as Sherlock replied, "Not hardly, but you recognized me and then bolted for the door. Why?"

Chuck shook his head and licked his lips. "That's ridiculous. I just … remembered something I needed to do. Your hair is exactly the same color as my sister's and her birthday is today and…"

"Oh, spare me the babbling," Sherlock said. "You're a terrible liar—even worse than John."

"John?"

"My friend, John Watson. The man whose laptop you were fixing." Sherlock stopped, intrigued as the man's face froze in that interesting grimace again. "What did you just see?"

"Nothing. It's just this, this _headache_ is so terrible."

"Hmm. If it's like mine, it probably is, but I'm not the one having brain seizures. I hate speculating with insufficient data, but my guess is a data dump of some kind. Tell me about John Watson."

Chuck's face went blank with the hopelessness of a man caught in a monumental lie. "Former RAMC captain, currently living in London with Sherlock Holmes, crack shot, something about a cabbie." he said with a sigh. "And he knows Casey."

"Casey?"

He nodded. "My handler. He and Sarah are probably on their way here right now." His left wrist twitched.

"Not if you're counting on them tracking your watch," Sherlock told him, nodding at the pieces on the floor. "They smashed it. I gather it had a tracking device?"

A bleak nod, which Sherlock responded to with a smile. "Don't worry. If John is working with your Casey, I don't expect it will be too long." He thought about his own phone, and his suspicion that Mycroft had some ultra-secure chip installed, but opted not to say anything, just in case. "What did you know about me that made you run?" he asked instead.

"That you're on about a million British government watch lists with a note that you're dangerous and anybody who sees you should contact a Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Sherlock huffed a laugh. "That's only because my brother can't keep his nose out of my business. I _work_ with the police. I'm a Consulting Detective and Lestrade is the best officer on the force—not that that's saying much."

"Consulting detective? I've never heard of that," Chuck said.

"I'd be surprised if you had, I invented the job. The police come to me when they're out of their depth, which is always. I observe the things they miss." He quirked an eyebrow at the man in the other chair and decided to demonstrate. "For example, you're what, 30 years old? But you still live with your sister and her … husband? No, fiancé. You work at an electronics store and have since uni, because you didn't finish your degree. You were aimlessly spinning your wheels for years until … a year ago? Less? When something unexpected happened that brought you to the attention of the government. I suspect it has something to do with that remarkable data dump, which is no doubt what brought us here because so far as I know, I have no enemies on this side of the world."

The man's face lit up. "That was incredible! How did you do that? I didn't think anybody could do that outside of movies!"

Unexpectedly flattered, Sherlock was about to answer when he heard two men approaching the door.

"Why'd you bring him? All we wanted was Bartowski. Bringing someone else is just going to complicate things!"

"But he was standing right _there_. We wouldn't have had another chance to get the Intersect, you know that."

"You could have killed him," the first man said, "Or left him there. It's not like he had a chance to see anything. But now he's here and he's a liability. We should just cut our losses"

Sherlock and Chuck exchanged looks as a hand touched the doorknob. "You can't just kill him. We can use him as leverage. Bartowski is notoriously squeamish _and_ tender-hearted. Having an innocent bystander in our power can work to our advantage."

There was a movement from the other chair and Sherlock saw Chuck trying hard not to panic. Just then, their kidnappers entered the room, eyes focused on Buy More employee who was practically squirming in his chair. "Look, I don't know what you guys want, but you're making a mistake."

"Oh, this is no mistake, Bartowski. We know you've got the Intersect."

"What? No. I don't know what you're talking about," Bartowski babbled. (Good God, he really was actually babbling, Sherlock thought.)

"Oh, we think you do. We know you roomed with Bryce Larkin at Stanford and we've noticed the heightened government surveillance in the area in the last year. You're the key. If you don't know where it is, you can lead us to it. We can make you talk."

Sherlock tried not to laugh, but a small noise of derision escaped, making the other three men all turn on him. "What? You find this amusing?"

"Oh, very," said Sherlock, delighted to be invited into the conversation. "It sounds like you learned threats from the same ridiculous movies my flatmate enjoys so much. '_Ve haf vays of making you talk_.' I mean, really."

The larger man took a step toward him. "You should really keep your mouth shut, or we might decide to cut our losses. We've got Bartowski. We don't need you."

"Oh, on the contrary, I think you'll find that you do," Sherlock said calmly. "Your employer would probably be most displeased if you killed me and drew attention to yourselves. Your abduction was witnessed, you know."

"So, finding an unexpected body will throw the cops off from looking for Bartowski here," the larger man said.

"Ah, but your boss told you not to kill anyone. That's why you didn't shoot me at the shop."

The large man was towering over him now. "What makes you think I'm not the boss?"

Sherlock sniffed. "Simple. If you were the boss, you wouldn't need the gun—you'd have people handling it for you. Not to mention that the quality of your clothing clearly speaks to an underling, not a leader. Have you never heard that one is supposed to dress up to the level they wish to achieve rather than dressing down? But then, you're American. At any rate, if you were smart enough to be the boss, you'd also have the brains to see that not only would killing me not help you at all by frightening Mr. Bartwoski here to the point where he'd be unable to cooperate, but it would work against you. I have a _very_ vengeful brother, and nobody has ever managed to hide from him yet."

He finished his spiel and sat calmly, meeting the other man's eyes and noting the variety of colors in his skin as his blood pressure fluctuated. "Fine," he finally spit out, "But don't think I'm going to feed you."

He turned back to Chuck, whose face had the same admiring expression Sherlock saw so often on John's. "And you—if you know what's good for you, you WILL tell me where I can find the Intersect computer. If your friend here thinks my threats are so boring, we'll see if he can be more convincing. You've got one hour, and then I'm coming back here—and I'd better get what I want."

The two men exited the room, slamming the door behind them.

#

"I don't know who this Mycroft is, but he's obviously good at what he does," Casey said, watching the display as the car sped through the streets. "I can't believe his tracking device is better than ours."

John braced himself as they sped around a turn. "We Brits have to do something better than you Americans," he said, "Though really, the list is quite long. We could start with the tea, if you like."

Sarah laughed in the front seat. "Can we save this for later? When Chuck and Sherlock are safe?" She glanced back at John. "You're sure you're comfortable with that gun, Doctor?"

John just smiled. "I was the best shot in my regiment."

"I thought you were in the medical corp?" she said, confused.

"I was. And I thought _you_ were a journalist." He nodded. "Oh, yes, I didn't recognize you at first, but would never forget someone like you … though you weren't going by Sarah."

He met Casey's eyes in the rearview mirror. "You two know each other?"

"A gentleman doesn't tell, Casey."

Another grunt. "Can't wait to hear Bartowski's reaction to that," was all he said, but John saw Sarah flinch ever so slightly. Something between her and Chuck, then, Right. He could respect that. He met another meaningful look in the mirror and gave a slight nod. Message received. "Anyway," he said, "You don't need to worry about my marksmanship. I'm very good."

Casey grunted. (John was beginning to appreciate the vast symphony of the man's noises.) "Maybe you were, but when's the last time you fired one, Watson? I know what England's gun laws are like." His tone said he thought them ridiculous.

"Last time I fired a gun? A week ago on the range at Scotland Yard," John said thoughtfully. "The last time I fired one because I needed to save a life? Two months. I told you—Sherlock gets himself into trouble."

"It sounds like he and Bartowski have a lot in common," Casey said.

"So what is it about Chuck that brings both of you here to watch him?" John asked. "I mean, I understand if you can't tell me, but that's quite an impressive base you've got and it just seems a little … overkill?"

"Let's just say he's an intelligence asset, and leave it at that, shall we?" Sarah said.

"Fair enough. I hope he's patient, though—being stuck with Sherlock can be difficult." At her querying look, he said, "He's ultra-observant and doesn't have much of a verbal filter so he tends to piss people off by spouting secrets at the drop of a hat and then not understanding why they're upset. Though, to be fair, that's gotten better since he came back."

"Came back? You mentioned something about…"

"Returning from the dead? Yeah." John stared out the window at the passing scenery for a moment. "The short story is that he was coerced into committing suicide a few years ago by a criminal mastermind, but he pulled off a miracle and faked it. He spent the next 18 months tracking down Moriarty's entire criminal organization before it was safe enough to come home for his resurrection."

Sarah turned and looked at John. "Wait, I remember that. Moriarty? It looked like it just fell apart, but I heard rumors that it was just one, determined agent who took it down almost single-handedly. I'd heard the stories, but never heard a name. That was Sherlock? He's like a legend."

"Yeah, except, he's not an agent, he's just a very, very motivated genius with a powerful brother."

Casey was watching John in the mirror again. "How do you coerce someone into committing suicide?"

John sighed. "You post three snipers ready to shoot the only three people in the world your victim cares about and tell him they'll die if he doesn't jump off a roof. Then, because you're utterly insane to begin with, you shoot yourself so that there's absolutely no way he can coerce you in return, leaving the poor sod absolutely no option but to jump while his best friend watches from the pavement, having no idea what's going on, just that the best man he's ever known is tearing his heart out right before his eyes." He ran his hand over his face and changed the subject. "Can we change the subject, please? When we get there, what's the plan?"

#

Sherlock and Chuck looked at each other as the door closed.

"Well, we've got an hour to figure something out," Sherlock said as he started working his shoulders and arms, testing his .

"And then what? They're going to torture us. I'm going to die," moaned Chuck.

Sherlock ignored him, letting him babble while he concentrated. He just needed to reach … he twisted his fingers, straining his wrists, and then … The rope parted. It was only a matter of moments before he shrugged himself free and moved over to Chuck, checking his handcuffs. "Don't stare. One thing about going up against Moriarty—I learned a lot of tricks."

He was starting to turn away to examine the door but was arrested by Chuck's face as he obviously received another burst of data from … "What is this Intersect computer, anyway?"

Chuck was blinking, stunned. "Jim Moriarty. The most powerful criminal mastermind in England until he killed himself and forced Sherlock Holmes to commit suicide … You jumped off a _roof_?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Fascinating. You really do have to explain this to me when we have time. Is it a chip embedded in your brain? How does it work?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Chuck said in a completely unconvincing way as he squirmed in his chair. "You wouldn't know anything about handcuffs, would you?"

Sherlock gave his dry smile. "As a matter of fact, I do." Within minutes, he had Chuck free and was tucking the handcuffs in his pocket while Chuck examined the metal lock on the door.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a screwdriver. "Just give me a minute, I can get this."

Sherlock glanced his way as he examined the room, looking for anything that could be used as a weapon. "The Intersect again?"

Chuck just smiled. "No, I'm a nerd, remember? Trust me, this is child's play. We sell this model at the store." And with that the lock beeped as it clicked open.

Sherlock gave a nod and edged the door open, peering into the outer room. "It's clear," he said as they edged out. He saw two mobiles on a table near the door and lifted his, tossing the other to Chuck. "No signal. Presumably they're blocking the GPS. Pity about your watch," he added as he saw the shattered remains.

Chuck looked disappointed. "Especially since that's where my tracking device is. I was counting on Sarah being able to follow that."

"No time to worry. Let's go." Sherlock started to lead the way into the hallway, but he was worried. It was too quiet. Their kidnappers had left only fifteen minutes ago, but it seemed unlikely they would have left them unguarded. He paused. "No guards, and I don't see any security cameras. Does that seem strange to you?"

"Isn't that good?"

"It would be … unless it's a test to see how easily we overcame the most simple of defenses."

"But, why would they do that?"

It was a good question. "A trap? They were efficient in their abduction and there four of them. We've only seen two, and there's the boss to be accounted for. This doesn't add up. It's some kind of test."

Chuck was looking around the room now. "So, what do we do?"

Sherlock smiled, and this time it was positively feral. "Something new."

#

"According to big brother, they're in that building across the street," Casey said, pulling the car over. "There's a team on the way, ETA 10 minutes."

John was just nodding. He could wait ten more minutes. That was doable.

But then all the lights in the building went out.

Then they came back on again.

Then they started blinking.

Then things got really odd.

He just had time to register Casey's muttered "Bartowski!" before the three of them were out of the car, racing toward the building. John could see several figures running out of it and thought one looked achingly familiar. He was sure of it when, moments later a voice shouted "Vatican Cameos!"

John shouted "Get down!" as he tackled Sarah out of the way of … was that a _firework_? He looked up as two forms skidded to a halt behind the van, both grinning widely.

"We thought you'd need some help finding us," Chuck said, "So when Sherlock suggested sending up a flare…"

"Holding hostages in a fireworks factory seemed less than sensible, after all," Sherlock said. "It seemed foolish not to take advantage." He ducked as a rocket shot overhead. "Don't look so horrified, John. We didn't set light to _all_ of them. That would have been irresponsible."

John just stared for a moment and then he couldn't help himself. He started to laugh.

#

Later, back at the hidden base (they called it 'Castle'), they tried to explain their logic to General Beckman and Mycroft via one of the most intimidating conference calls John had ever had the displeasure to be part of.

He had sent Mycroft a text as soon as Sherlock and Chuck were safe and the kidnappers arrested. His response had been swift. (_"The fireworks? I should have known. MH._) Now, though, as the five of them stood in front of the video screens giving their report, John couldn't keep the corners of his mouth from twitching. The sight of the largest kidnapper running for his life from a star-spangled rocket wasn't something he was going to forget any time soon.

Nor would he forget Sherlock's real, honest smile as he shook Chuck's hand. It was so rare to see Sherlock Holmes complimenting anyone (and meaning it). Impossible though it seemed, the two men had almost bonded during their brief captivity, and John was frankly dying to know how. He'd caught Sherlock watching Chuck through narrowed eyes a couple of times as he obviously thought through and discarded scenarios at lightning speed—even if John had no idea what he was trying to figure out.

For his part, Chuck had been delighted to see the three of them, and had even boasted a bit about using fireworks as their distraction. ("You know how I hate them, Sarah. Almost as much as needles.") He had given John a huge grin when he saw him, too, as if he knew him. He'd also teasingly challenged John and Casey to a contest at the secret shooting range (under a shop?) to see who was the better shot.

All in all, the five of them had returned to Castle feeling almost like friends. The Americans had taken the time to look at John's blog and were teasing him about his movie deal. ("You think evil geniuses are dangerous? Wait until you tackle Hollywood.") Sherlock was refreshingly not bored—obviously an escape from kidnappers had been just what he needed midway through their trip.

So, really, feeling like they were being dressed down by their commanding officers, standing in a row in front of the disapproving united front of General Beckman and Mycroft Holmes?

Totally worth it.

John could grow to like California after all.

#

Notes:

Yes, I totally took liberties with the time periods of both shows. John and Sherlock are somewhere well past the post-Reichenbach events (whatever they will turn out to be in season 3), but Chuck, Casey, and Sarah are somewhere in Season 2, before Intersect version 2.0. I wanted them all to meet, but didn't want Chuck to be a real spy yet, and the best reason I could think for getting John and Sherlock to LA was a movie deal for John's post-Reichenbach blog posts … so, I made it happen. I mean, it's fan fiction. I can do what I want, right?

So-did it work? Or was it totally ridiculous?


End file.
